


What I Need

by busdriver



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, gay eye contact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24621508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busdriver/pseuds/busdriver
Summary: It was something they did. Casual and transactional. Something to blow off steam.But - maybe this time there was something slightly different.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 359





	What I Need

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a prompt on tumblr for this ages ago and I could not track it down for credit. It was something along the lines of "casual bro sex turns unexpectedly tender" and I could not stop thinking about it.
> 
> Anyway, forgive me this is my first time writing porn and I haven't written anything more than 300 words for about four years. So - apologies for my inability to carry a motif and my overuse of commas & conjunctions to start a sentence.

_‘Don’t serve your kind here, mutant.’_

He’d been kicked out of another brothel. Barely a few steps in, the Madam had stood front of him – arms folded; shoulders squared. The stink of fear rolled off the whores behind her. Jaskier had tensed beside him, ready to dole out a tongue lashing, but Geralt had simply nodded, turned and left. Jaskier stomped out into the night behind him and they’d set up camp an hour outside of town.

Jaskier places a hand on his shoulder, all too gently and Geralt’s stomach flips. He’d wanted just a night of skin-to-skin contact to tide him over until he saw Yennefer again, until he could release that ache that seethed under his flesh. He shrugs Jaskier off and lays out their bedrolls side by side. The night was cold, and it would only get colder.

“You should have stayed,” he says, stoking the fire.

Jaskier turns to him and scrunches his face. “Oh, please, Geralt.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Did you hear the yowling cat they employed as a Bard? Very distracting.” The firelight licked at the contours of his face and his eyes soften ever so slightly. “Besides, couldn’t leave you out here all by your lonesome, I’d worry you’d miss me.”

Geralt quirks an eyebrow and grunts. “No chance of that, Bard.”

Jaskier scoffs and silence falls between them like a heavy blanket. Vaguely constricting and far too thick. Sometimes Jaskier’s blathering was like balm to his frayed nerves.

“You know,” Jaskier says, “we could… I don’t know, do what we used to do.”

_‘What we used to do.’_

“Since we’ve both been left so bereft and unsatisfied,” Jaskier adds, a touch too fast.

“Hm,” Geralt offers. _What they used to do._

And what was that? A stray hand in a bathtub after a particularly difficult hunt. A tryst in a shared bed in a mouldy inn. His head between Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier’s talented, deft, fingers teasing out knots in his back and jerking him off not long after. A purely casual, carnal affair. Something two endlessly pent up individuals did for stress relief - something they hadn’t done in quite some time.

Jaskier had enough encounters to keep a succubus full for a year and Geralt… Well, Geralt had Yennefer – and that had been more than enough to keep him satisfied. Content, even.

He shrugs. Grunts. Nods.

Jaskier turns to him and smiles. “How do you want me?”

“Do you have oil?”

“Naturally.”

He thinks for a moment. What _did_ he want?

He pulls his shirt off. “In my lap.”

Jaskier rolls his head towards Geralt and smirks, eyes twinkling in the firelight. “Are you trying to kill me, Witcher?”

Geralt growls, “hurry up, Bard.”

Jaskier gets up and heads towards his lute case, shedding layers of clothes as he goes. He returns a second later – entirely naked with a bottle of oil in one hand. Uncorking the bottle, he lathers his fingers before coming to sit in front of Geralt, knees on the bedroll, fingers disappearing behind him. Geralt watches with clinical interest as Jaskier opens himself up. This is an exchange, a mutual release. They’ve done it before, numerous times.

He palms himself through his pants. Two fingers disappear into Jaskier’s slick hole and he lets out a small gasp. Geralt unlaces his pants and tugs off his boots. The air smells like linseed, sweet orange. The thick scent of arousal. He picks up the oil, pouring some into his hand and slicking his half-hard cock, stroking himself once – root to tip. Jaskier moans, long and low and his eyes flutter shut.

“I’m ready,” he says.

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

Geralt pauses. “Is three enough?”

Jaskier opens one eye and snorts. “You’ve not gotten any better at dirty talk since we last tumbled, Geralt.”

Geralt fixes him with a stern glare. “Talk like that and I won’t fuck you at all.”

 _“I won’t fuck you at all, Jaskier,”_ he mimics, clambering forward, _“sword oil is not appropriate lubricant, Jaskier.”_ He climbs into Geralt’s lap, wrapping his thighs around Geralt’s waist. “You can’t just _say_ things like that when you’re, y’know, _sheathed_ in a man. It’s rather uncouth.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, slides his hands under Jaskier’s thighs and presses his cock to Jaskier’s entrance, pushing in ever so slightly. Jaskier loops his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, tries to push himself further down.

“Jaskier,” he warns. Jaskier wiggles his hips in response. It had been a feat to fit inside Jaskier the first time they’d fucked, four fingers and what felt like an age of just opening Jaskier up, taking him apart on a straw mattress. His cock twitches at the memory. Jaskier had come twice before he’d even entered the Bard – come twice on just Geralt’s fingers. He pushes in another inch, and then another. He lets out a low groan, and Jaskier buries his head in Geralt’s shoulder with a strangled sob. Soft hair brushes against his jaw and he inhales Jaskier’s scent – may chang and _rosemary?_ Heat races up his neck as he bottoms out, hips flush against Jaskier’s ass.

He wants to give Jaskier a moment to accommodate, be considerate but Jaskier cuts into his thoughts with a sloppy open mouthed kiss on his shoulder. He rolls his neck, burying his cheek in Jaskier’s hair.

“Gods, Geralt, _move_.”

“You expecting me to do all the work?”

Jaskier looks at him, a smirk on his lips. Something coils beneath Geralt’s ribcage, nauseatingly warm. “Maybe.”

Geralt snaps his hips, just once, eliciting a soft _‘hah’_ from Jaskier. He shifts the angle thrusting upwards – once, twice, three times – sharply and Jaskier responds in kind with punched out staccato grunts.

Then he stops. Prick still pressed into that spot he knows makes Jaskier see stars.

“Oh, f-fuck, Geralt,” he whines and lifts his hips, rolling them to maintain the rhythm. Geralt grabs his hips and holds him still.

“Hmm? Something you wanted?”

Jaskier swats at him, half-heartedly. “You are cruel to me, cruel and unkind. I may die here, Geralt of Rivia and you will be the cause. You would deprive the continent of my legend, my –” He’s cut off by Geralt thrusting into him again, none too gently.

And this time, Geralt doesn’t stop. He sets a hard pace, thrusting upwards, and Jaskier slams his hips back down to meet him. He grabs Jaskier’s cock and pumps him, making the Bard’s eyes roll back into his head. Jaskier’s mouth falls open and Geralt captures his lips in a hungry kiss. He’s climbing, closer and closer and Jaskier’s hole flutters around him and he knows, _knows_ that Jaskier is close, too.

And then he stops – again. Holding Jaskier in place once more, hand still, slick with pre-come. Jaskier shudders in his grasp, eyes fluttering shut. He doesn’t groan or cry out, simply stills and exhales.

Geralt tenses – a pang of concern jumps through his chest and he studies Jaskier’s face, tries to scent the air for any signs of discomfort. Jaskier opens his eyes again and he doesn’t say anything – doesn’t move, just fixes Geralt with a blissed out stare and leans forward. Their lips meet and usually they only kiss during sex because that was the thing to do. It was a way of creating the illusion of closeness. But this kiss feels different, and that thing – that aching, warm thing that sits in Geralt’s chest stirs, coiling around his throat, burgeoning out into his extremities. Jaskier sighs into his mouth, releasing their lips, still attached by a string of saliva. “Geralt,” he says with an edge of severity, “I am not beneath begging.”

“I’m aware.”And _oh_ he did enjoy making Jaskier beg. 

Jaskier nips at his earlobe and Geralt snaps his hips again. Jaskier reaches for his cock but Geralt grabs his wrist. Jaskier groans and buries his head in Geralt’s shoulder again. “We’ll get there when we get there.”

“ _You_ may, sir Witcher. I am unfortunately afflicted with a human lifespan. One that you are _wasting.”_

“There are worse ways to die.”

Jaskier scowls, shakes his head. “How are you so eloquent when you are _inside of me_? I can barely coax a syllable out of you most days ¬but here I am, cock in my ass, having a full conversation.” He huffs and clenches around Geralt for emphasis.

Geralt grunts, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He takes Jaskier’s cock in his hand again, stroking once, and slowly rolls his hips. Jaskier throws his head back and moans. A performative gesture, Geralt is sure. He swallows, watching a bead of sweat drip down the column of Jaskier’s neck. Leaning forward he nips at the skin, sucking a bruise into the flesh and feels the vibration of Jaskier keening in response.

And then, he’s thrusting hard again, somewhere in his mind, aware that this is supposed to be _casual_. A quick fuck, something he’d sought out a brothel for. Nausea slips through his veins, he wasn’t supposed to be kissing, _conversing_ with Jaskier as though they were an old married couple.

That thought dies as Jaskier leans into him to whisper: “you can come inside me, if you want.”

Jaskier’s words go straight through him, and he chases after his orgasm as it builds and pools in his stomach. He buries his teeth in the meat of Jaskier’s shoulder as his orgasm is ripped out of him. Ears full of cotton, he’s only vaguely aware that he hasn’t stopped thrusting, hasn’t stopped pumping Jaskier’s cock, as the Bard spills between them and comes with a shout, legs shaking around him.

They both struggle for breath as Jaskier brings their foreheads together – eyes closed, smiling softly. “I still think you are cruel,” Jaskier says. Geralt grunts, places a hand on Jaskier’s neck and pulls him into a kiss.

And they stay like that, for a time, just breathing the same air. That warmth has crawled up his throat to sit on the back of his tongue and he hopes Jaskier can’t taste it there. Can’t taste that mortifying softness that he only allows himself in moments like this. Jaskier sighs, hot breath against his face.

Then, he gets up, come still on his chest, between his thighs. He rummages through Geralt’s saddlebags and returns with a water skin and a rag. They clean themselves slowly, silence laying over the campsite once again. Jaskier pulls a blanket over his shoulders and turns to Geralt, impossibly blue eyes soft, even in the harsh firelight. “Sated then, Master Witcher?”

Geralt searches for a response, reaches into himself to find an adequate answer. _‘Yes,’ ‘Thank you for always knowing what I need.’_ But they die in his throat and he offers Jaskier nothing but a hum.

And with that, Jaskier settles onto his bedroll, without a witty response, posture low, forlorn.

Geralt lays himself down on his own bedroll, back to both the fire and to the impossible warmth that is Jaskier.


End file.
